A Portrait of the Artist as a Dumb Man
Oh, hello again,
This blog is dedicated to Davy Jones, the late British musician. He died about a week ago, and I can only hope that he will be buried at sea, so as to return him to Davy Jones’ locker. Rest in peace, you cheeky monkey.
I had a whole blog written and saved for today, but I accidentally saved something over it and now I have to start from scratch. It was not really funny, though, so I am not that upset. The Valentine’s Day blog got a great reaction, and I thank you for it. The most hits this blog has ever received in a single day was 136, which was for the very first entry back in October. The last blog got 131 hits, which I am very proud of. I am not proud of you deadbeats, though. Second place is for losers, so smarten up. Regardless, one day, after I’ve become famous and I’ve won an Oscar, a Grammy, the Nobel Prize and the Iron Cross, I will not forget who put me on the top of the shit pile.
My 27th birthday was on February 25th and it was a lot of fun. I share that birthdate with Ric Flair and Carrot Top. Oh, and George Harrison, but that guy is a hack compared to the other aforementioned talents. I like to think that I am getting better with age, much like cheese. Except I taste better than cheese, so take note, girls. Cheese probably smells better, however. 27 is not bad for me, since I’ve already beaten the spread. Between my collegiate love of intoxicants and Baconators, I figured I would have checked out around 23. However, serendipity has smiled upon me… so suck on that, probability. Back to the birthday, though. My neighbor was just telling me how funny it was when he heard the music blaring from my apartment at 4:30 AM on February 26th. We were listening to this remix of the 4 Non Blonds song “What’s Up”, which is set to footage of He-man and The Masters of the Universe. It seemed appropriate after my 34th drink of the night. In all seriousness, though, I can’t stop watching that goddamn Youtube video. Saints preserve me, it is like a needle drug. I. Can’t. Stop. As Carl Brutananadilewski once said “It is stuck in my head, and only way I can get it to stop is if I blow it out – with a bullet.”
I was at the bar with some friends (including girls, can you believe it?!) and during the night, one of the girls dropped something on the floor, which then rolled between my feet. Though I would have gladly retrieved the item for her, she leaned forward, with her head hovering over my lap as she searched the floor. I felt very uncomfortable, yet not entirely displeased, as her face was about a centimeter away from my doodle-schwanz. I turned to the girl sitting next to me and said, quite unceremoniously, “Well, I am glad I took a shower today!” The comment was met with mixed reaction by those who chanced to hear it. I thought it was funny.
All right, enough of this bullshit, let’s get weird. Time for some observations, so fasten your seat belt.
Did you hear the big news? Since the dawn of time, man has plodded towards progress. We discovered fire, invented the wheel, forged steel, sent rockets into space and walked on the moon. Finally, human achievement may have reached its zenith, and you know why? They finally fried the McRib. Man split the atom, and now its time to split our pants. The McRib, a scrumptious injection molded patty of imitation ribs made from pork byproduct paste, has finally been battered and fried. Oh, the humanity! I also learned that Burger King is going to start delivering food, door to door. We are officially too fat and lazy for the drive through. We can’t even drive to a window to get food anymore. If you think this country is fat right now, just wait and see. We’re going to blimp out, look back at ourselves in 10 years, and think we used to look like Heroin chic models. Our collective physique about to go from Kate Moss to Jabba the Hutt. We are going to expand like the sun. The obesity rate is going to move faster than herpes in a sorority house. Now I am not trying to say that the end is nigh, but this gastronomical perdition is probably the beginning of our extinction event.
I was thinking about Lent the other day, and how I always hated letting any day pass without eating at least one animal. Fruits and veggies are great, but if something didn’t have a face at one point, why bother eating it? I want my Lenten diet to be the meatiest in the land, with each animal more endangered than the last. Bald Eagle drumsticks, Siberian Tiger spareribs, you name it. It will be a menagerie of flavors until I’ve got that coveted Easter ham locked in my crosshairs. I thought about giving up deodorant for Lent, so as to emulate the time of Jesus… or the current fragrance of the Middle East.
I was thinking about how fat this country is, and the nerve we have. We actually have competitive eating, even though obesity is rampant. There are parts of this world (East Africa leaps to mind) which are so famished that people wash their hands with cattle piss, and would kill just to eat one of your boogers. Somewhere in Ethiopia right now, there is an egg-headed walking corpse who had a bowl of sand for dinner and is one stiff breeze away from death. Meanwhile, back in Milwaukee, we’re still trying to figure out who can eat the most hot dogs. Still, when the famine commercials come on, it always gets me for a few seconds. Then I change the channel and get another beer. How fucked up is this country that I feel worse for the dogs in the animal cruelty commercial than I do for a starving human being? I am not alone in this sentiment, either, so don’t even pretend like I am the only asshole. Maybe if they put the starving children in dog cages and played Sarah McLachlan over the PSA we might learn to care. I doubt it, though.
I can’t believe you people read this crap.